WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

THE ONE WHERE THE GODS LISTENED

Present Day —
An Undisclosed Island Somewhere in the Tropics

The afternoon sun hung like a molten coin in the sky, pressing its heat into every surface it touched. The garden shimmered under its weight—lush and overgrown with color, every leaf waxy, every bloom too vibrant to be real. Butterflies drifted like living petals, and cicadas buzzed lazily in the treetops.

The fountain in the center of the garden burbled contentedly, half-swallowed by creeping moss and flowering vines. A pair of geckos were locked in a slow-motion standoff over a mango peel, flicking their tails with twitchy indignation.

It was, in every way, an undisturbed paradise.

Until the hedges spoke.

"Hello?"

Kol Mikaelson, shirtless and stretched across a lounge chair like a lounging panther who'd had too much wine, jerked upright as though electrocuted. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose in a dramatic clatter.

"What in the bloody hell—?" he barked, twisting around like someone expecting a divine summons.

At the far end of the garden, Rhea Monroe paused mid-snip with her silver herb shears, her expression the picture of calm as she looked up. "Did you say something?"

Kol was still pointing vaguely toward the riot of hibiscus bushes, where something was rustling.

"No," he said. "She did."

A tiny girl emerged, parting the flowers like a curtain. She couldn't have been more than six years old—sun-kissed skin, a halo of wind-mussed hair, one jelly sandal, and a tear in the hem of her sundress. There were streaks of dirt on her cheeks and grass in her curls. She looked like a storybook gone slightly feral.

She stopped, blinked up at Kol with the calm of a seasoned explorer.

Kol blinked back.

Rhea stood. "Oh dear."

"Are you... lost, little human?" Kol asked, completely serious, and slightly accusatory.

The girl nodded solemnly. "I followed a turtle. And then the house was gone."

Kol threw both hands into the air. "Of course. A bloody turtle."

"Oh gods," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was being personally punished by fate. "We've been chosen. We're someone's side quest."

But Rhea was already crossing the garden, dropping to her knees with a warmth that made Kol's exasperation look even more absurd.

"Hey, sweetheart," she said gently. "What's your name?"

The girl tilted her head. "Emmy."

"That's a lovely name. I'm Rhea, and this is Kol."

"My mum says not to talk to strangers," Emmy said seriously, then added, "but you smell like vanilla. And he smells like cinnamon and... old books."

Kol looked personally offended. "I smell like danger and expensive cologne, thank you very much."

Rhea bit back a laugh. "You smell like the 18th century."

Emmy giggled.

"Well, Emmy," Rhea said, brushing a smudge of dirt from her forehead, "you found our garden. Let's get you some water, yeah?"

Rhea offered her hand.

Emmy took it.

Kol trailed behind them into the villa, barefoot and brooding, muttering about ancient witch curses and sticky-fingered goblins.